


A Dance 'til Dawn

by winterkill



Series: Dark in the city, night is a wire [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe - Noir, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, Ciri has Geralt wrapped around her finger, Everyone fights a striga, F/M, Gen, Irritating sidekick Dandelion, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Yennefer is sexy and vaguely menacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:40:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22618768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winterkill/pseuds/winterkill
Summary: “And do you have a name?”She crosses her arms; the gesture makes Geralt notice the rest of her.Black and white.Not a stitch of color in her entire ensemble. Her coat comes to her knees, and only a sorceress would wear heels to fight a striga.Wholly impractical.“Yennefer of Vengerberg.”
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Series: Dark in the city, night is a wire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1608151
Comments: 20
Kudos: 117





	A Dance 'til Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all the comments on the last installment! I hope everyone continues to enjoy my strange AU.

A month passes, and Geralt is fairly certain Dandelion lives on his sofa. 

He has no idea where Dandelion _actually_ resides, only that when he unlocks his paint-scuffed front door, he can often be found sitting across from Ciri at the kitchen table playing Gwent. Or they will be sitting on the sofa, Dandelion holding a fucking lute (where and _how_ did he even get such a thng?), singing, as Ciri listens.

One morning, before school, when Dandelion _isn’t_ there, Ciri is stirring a pot of oatmeal on the stove when Geralt broaches the topic.

“Ciri,” she turns at her name. _Is she taller?_ He’s spent so little time around human kids that, to him, Ciri sprouts up like a weed.

“Yeah?”

“It’s good that you’ve made a friend.” She mentions very, very few people from school, and Geralt has never _met_ any of her classmates.

“You think Dandelion is annoying.”

“I...do,” Geralt finishes lamely.

As if to prove Geralt’s mistake, Ciri leaves the oatmeal and opens their fridge, which is _filled_ with food. Geralt bought ground beef, and something to drink that wasn’t water. There’s _produce_. 

“Dandelion’s stories bring the business,” she says with an air of finality. 

Ciri likes Dandelion, and, as usual, what Ciri prefers, Ciri gets. _More contracts means Ciri eats better, and if Ciri eats better, then I’m a better guardian._ No matter how Geralt tried to outrun it, to convince himself that Ciri would be better with someone else, Calanthe’s granddaughter was bound to his destiny.

...That doesn't mean Dandelion is, though.

“I don’t always want him sleeping on my fucking couch,” Geralt grumbles, “I assume he has a place of his own.”

Ciri is grinning when she passes them the bowl of oatmeal topped with fucking fruit, of all things. Six weeks ago they ate sugary cereal or canned beans for breakfast. Both it _and_ Ciri seem to be mocking Geralt as he eats.

The oatmeal tastes _way_ fucking better than beans.

* * *

Geralt is covered in blood and muck and shit when he sits down at the usual dive bar where contracts are posted. There's other places, sure, less fucking seedy ones where some thug won't pick a fight with a witcher.

People have _no_ sense of self-preservation, and some of them are _really_ fucking stupid.

The contracts here are more dangerous, things people fear going to the authorities about. He rips some off the board, leaving mucky smudges on them from his gloves and slaps them down on the worn surface of the bar. 

"What can I do for ya?"

The barkeep looks like he should work here, like maybe he roughed people up in alleyways before trading things up to give sketchy-looking bastards weak pours of bottom-shelf booze.

"Booze," Geralt answers, "A double of what-the-fuck-ever."

He barks a laugh and hands Geralt _something;_ it all burns and doesn't do shit, so whatever. He's not going to take this batch of contracts home for Ciri to evaluate, not yet at least. There's whispers, now, that the White Wolf sits at a certain seat in a certain bar at a certain time each week. His newly acquired celebrity status has a sole benefit--sometimes people come up to him.

Geralt would thank Dandelion if it wouldn't make him _more_ insufferable.

It takes an hour and nursing two more drinks before Geralt sees the fruits of his efforts. A nervous-looking man slides into the stool next to him and whispers, "Are you Geralt of Rivia?"

"And who do you think Geralt of Rivia is?"

"A witcher with white hair and two swords across his back. The White Wolf."

Geralt gesture to himself with his glass, "Then who the fuck else would I be?" He's not worried about driving the man away--he's dressed like a rich asshole who's trying _not_ to look rich. From his wary glances around the room, he's never set foot in a place this shitty.

 _Whatever_ it is, the man will pay, and Geralt's lack of interpersonal charm won't matter.

"That's me, then," he replies gruffly, "Who the fuck else would sit here like this?"

The man doesn't answer _that_ query, but he leans close to Geralt before speaking. He smells like sweat, proof that he's nervous, and a cologne that Geralt can't place, only that it smells expensive.

"My daughter," he starts, "she's been turned into a monster."

Geralt's heard this tale a dozen times and wonders how literal the man is. _Monster_ could mean the daughter ran off with a man her daddy didn't approve of. It could also mean the girl is a moody teen. Some days, Ciri feels like more a monster than the ones he slays.

Needing more information, Geralt looks to the man and asks, "What kind of monster?"

"I don't know the name, but she's been missing for three months, and she attacks when the moon is full," the man sounds panicked. " _Please._ Anyone else will kill her."

 _A striga_ \--probably the same contract Ciri vetoed a few days before he met Dandelion. _Who can say if it was taken out by her father?_ He's right though, any other witchers or sorceress who took out the contract will kill the girl rather than go through the hassles to undo the curse.

"And you surmise I won't?"

"I-I've heard that you're merciful if the deed can be done that way."

_Fuck. Everyone thinks I'm soft._

"The police will die trying; a striga is not a small monster found in an alley. And you're correct about other witchers."

"I just want her back," the man begs, _"please."_

"Half up front," Geralt imagines what Ciri, a fiercer negotiator than he will ever be, would say. 

The man names a sum that nearly makes Geralt's head spin; they could live for _months._

" _Done_. Lucky for you, the moon is full tomorrow."

Ciri would've gotten a higher rate.

* * *

Because he's an idiot who likes to make himself suffer, the next night he fucking _invites_ Dandelion to join him. He seems thrilled at the idea until Geralt lifts a manhole covering an entrance to the sewers.

"You first," he gestures to the ladder leading to the dark pit.

"What if something eats me?"

"Then it'll have a delicious last meal," Geralt replies.

"You'd avenge me?" Dandelion's voice wavers.

"I'd save myself and rid the city of a pest."

"You _like_ me; I knew you did!"

Geralt wants to shove him down the manhole, but instead he crosses his arms and waits. Dandelion huffs, but eventually does as he's bid and descends.

Dandelion's yelp echoes when he reaches the bottom, "It's _wet!_ These shoes are ruined--what the _hell_ am I stepping on?"

"Shit that's in a sewer. I wouldn't think about it too hard."

"I can't even get a decent picture down here!"

 _Which is sort of a problem._ Not that Geralt is going to say that. "What a damn shame," he says instead.

The muck comes up to Geralt's knees, but his boots keep the wetness out well enough--for now, at least. He's used to being covered in shit, but within ten minutes he's longing for a hot shower. Ciri won't let him in the apartment like this.

When the muck is back to being ankle-deep, something crunches under Dandelion's feet, and he emits a girlish scream.

_"What is that?!"_

"Bones," Geralt replies dryly and kneels down to sift through the muck at Dandelion's feet. He pulls the bone out and stares at it. "A femur. Human."

_"Why is that here?"_

"Because where else do people dispose of bodies in this fucking city?"

Dandelion looks a bit green in dim light filtering in through a grate in the street above them. It's dark here for Geralt with his enhanced eyesight; for Dandelion it must be nearly pitch black. 

"Is that," he gulps, " _related?"_

"Didn't Ciri teach you that already?"

Geralt saw the two of them, more than once, reading through the books Geralt took from Kaer Morhen years ago. The ancient keep held nothing but memories, now, and even some of those were gone.

"I can only absorb so many horrible monster facts, Geralt."

"Study harder," Geralt drops the bone back into the muck, "Come. We're moving in the right direction."

* * *

The two of them walk for so long that Geralt loses track of the layout of the city above them. Novigrad is a maze, streets and alleys tangled together. He can only tell they're moving outward from the city center.

Dandelion, clearly winded, leans over and rests his hands on his thighs. "You'll need to carry me home."

"...Like fuck I'm doing that. Find a cab."

"You're lucky I put up with you because you're mean-spirited."

They hit a ladder, and Geralt puts his foot on the first rung, "We're climbing. Stay close. If you get caught I'll leave you."

 _I won't, and Dandelion knows it._ If Geralt looks down, he'd surely find Dandelion smirking at his outright lie. The illusion that he doesn't give a shit comforts him, and Dandelion doesn't press him.

The ladder leads to an open, dank space. It smells like blood and _rot_ , and when Dandelion appears up the latter, chattering, Geralt slaps a hand over his mouth.

_"Shut up."_

Dandelion obeys; Geralt wishes he did that more often. He is about to mutter something to that effect when he _hears_ it. The noise, the panting of a beast, is too far away for Dandelion's normal ears to make out, but he'll know soon enough.

"The striga," Geralt says, "it comes."

Geralt draws the silver sword from his back and pulls a vial of Cat from his pouch. It's the last one. _Ciri will need to make more._ She likes it because it makes her feel helpful, and feel like a witcher, and he hasn't decided how to feel about that. Once the potion is down, the effect is almost immediate--the dim space brightens.

 _Bones_. 

Not the striga's lair--that would contain a coffin, but _definitely_ a favored dining establishment. The striga bursts in, comes at Geralt with a speed that _almost_ shocks him. It's been a _long_ time since he fought a striga, and he remembers why he hates it. A blast of _aard_ staggers the creature, but it's a temporary fix because the thing is flying at him again.

 _If only I could kill it._ He got half the fee upfront, which was still quite a boon. This was a _girl_ though, and she didn't deserve to die for being cursed. 

He's a second too slow with a dodge, and the striga punts Geralt into a wall, sending rubble flying. It's perfectly timed with the flash on Dandelion's camera. The blow is more embarrassing than painful, and with the Cat potion, the flash is nearly blinding. 

"How do you kill it?" Dandelion yells.

"I don't. That's the fucking problem!"

"Why not?" he sounds a bit panicked.

Geralt, back on his feet, dodges another charge from the striga. "It's a curse; there's a girl inside. The contract is to break it."

"So _how?"_

"I have to keep her from going back to her lair until dawn." The old texts say _until the rooster crows three times_ , but good luck finding a fucking rooster in Novigrad. Dawn will have to suffice, and that’s at least an hour away.

Dandelion just replies, "Well, _fuck_."

* * *

“Are you tired?” Dandelion yells after nearly a half hour of dodging the striga around.

He’s entertained lots of questions like these over the decades--does he eat, does he sleep, does he feel feelings, does his cock work? People are _curious_ , and all the questions do is make Geralt feel more and more apart from the rest of society.

Dandelion, though, sounds genuinely concerned.

Geralt doesn’t have a chance to answer--the witcher medallion vibrates aggressively, clacking against the buttons on his coat. _Magic, and not from the striga._ He means to call out to Dandelion, but the swirling energy of a portal manifests in the darkness, and out of it steps a woman.

And not just any woman--a sorceress. A powerful one, given the magical energy coming off of her in waves. She steps from the portal and surveys the space, hands on her hips. She looks at Geralt first, then Dandelion, and finally the striga, which comes barreling at _her_ now.

Geralt can’t read her expression, but her posture indicates a mild disinterest.

 _“Enough!”_ she calls out, raising her hand.

 _A spell--one that binds._ The striga makes an aborted movement, trapped in an invisible barrier the sorceress erected. _Whoever_ the woman is, Geralt doesn’t mind the momentary reprieve, but he’ll be less than pleased if she has come for his bounty.

“Are the two of you children?” Her voice is full of indignation. “Do you think a striga is a dog for you to play fetch with?”

“We’re breaking the curse!” Dandelion yells.

The sorceress laughs, “With your camera?”

Dandelion counters, “No, with a witcher.”

The striga screeches and thrashes, but can’t break from its bonds. The sorceress watches it for a moment before turning to Geralt. 

Facing him, Geralt can make out her features perfectly--the elegant, dark waves of her hair tumbling around her shoulders. The stark contrast of it to the porcelain of her skin. That a sorceress is beautiful is no surprise; he’s seen many over the decades, and if they are not beautiful they command the power to make themselves so. 

This sorceress isn’t _quite_ that; she’s compelling, but there’s _something,_ a glimmer of magic, and more than just to keep her hair coiffed and her make-up on. Geralt can’t quite place it.

Her eyes, a deep violet that seems to peer _through_ him, are menacing _and_ captivating.

“Geralt of Rivia,” she says, eventually, “the White Wolf.”

It takes considerable effort to break her gaze; Geralt jerks his head away to complete the task, looking back to the striga, “Should I know you?”

“No, but I know of you.”

Unhelpfully, Dandelion yells, “See, I _told_ you I’d make you famous!”

 _The fucking newspaper._ Geralt wanted clients, not random sorceresses sticking their noses into his business. 

“And do _you_ have a name?”

She crosses her arms; the gesture makes Geralt notice the _rest_ of her. _Black and white._ Not a stitch of color in her entire ensemble. Her coat comes to her knees, and only a sorceress would wear _heels_ to fight a striga. _Wholly_ impractical.

“Yennefer of Vengerberg.”

_Well, the dame has a name._

* * *

Dandelion doesn’t ask Yennefer if she’s tired, but Geralt senses the ebb in her magic; she won’t be able to keep the striga confined indefinitely.

And like hell Geralt is letting her do... _whatever_ she plans.

“You can’t hold that forever,” he calls out to her.

Yennefer scowls, “You haven’t the _slightest_ idea what I can or can’t do.”

“The spell,” he continues, “you’ll run out of juice eventually. And that’s my food and rent money for six months.”

“You’re going to kill it?”

“I’m going to break the curse because that’s what I was paid to do.”

She laughs, but it's a mocking and unpleasant sound, “You’ll fight it until dawn?”

A grumpiness overtakes Geralt, and he grunts “Yes.”

“Alright. Get to it then, witcher.”

Dandelion shrieks, which makes Geralt look to find him pointing his damned camera at the striga, “Geralt, she’s gonna let it go!”

The striga breaks free and charges at them again. _Damnit._ The damned thing is even _more_ pissed off. Geralt draws the silver sword off his back once more, wishing the sun would rise faster. _If I can just keep it distracted._

Except now, he’s combating Yennefer of Vengerberg _and_ a striga, all while trying to keep Dandelion from being added to the bones crunching beneath his feet. Dandelion runs away, but he’s also trying to take pictures, which isn’t adding to the potential of his lifespan. She channels lightning from her hands, aimed at the striga, but it’s faster than she’s expecting, and she misses. The two of them continue like that, dodging one another as Yennefer tries to land a blow on the striga.

She’s _fast_ , and more agile that Geralt expects.

“It’s a _person,”_ Geralt's voice echoes across the cavernous space. He forces the striga back with another blast of aard, hard enough that the creature crashes into the wall. _How do you like that when it happens to you?_

“A monster,” Yennefer corrects, “cursed or otherwise. How many people’s bones are we stepping on as we dance around like this?”

“My pay is to bring the daughter back safely; I won’t kill her without trying to save her,” Geralt yells back.

They circle again while the striga shrieks. Geralt almost yells at Dandelion to leave, but who knows the ways he might get himself killed alone in a Novigrad sewer. 

The passage of time is meaningless--all Geralt knows is that it feels like a decade since he started chasing a crazed sorceress and a striga around. The sun might as well never rise because Geralt thinks he’s going to be doing this until the end of his days.

Yennefer’s fast, but he’s faster. Her magic has the advantage of distance, and her aim proves true time and time again. Eventually, she pauses, clearly thinking she has a good shot. The striga charges at her, and she reaches out to cast an incantation.

And Geralt _knows,_ with a grim certainty borne of fighting monsters for decades, that she’s not going to make it. The striga is too fast, and they’ve burnt themselves out dodging each other. It will get to her, and Geralt can _see_ Yennefer, limp on the ground, blood coating the white of her dress that peeks out from under her coat.

It’s an instinctual reaction, but he really, _really_ doesn’t want to see that.

Yennefer is close enough to tackle, so Geralt dives at her, arms around her torso to knock her out of the striga’s way. The spell she casts misses, but does stun the striga momentarily. Geralt’s a gentleman, so he manages to flip them and land on his back with Yennefer above him. A witcher is probably not the softest landing spot, but it’s better than being smashed into the concrete.

When they land, Geralt expects a _thank you_ what he gets is a flurry of kicks and elbows from the writhing sorceress in his arms. 

“I _had_ it, you bastard!”

“That looked more like a ‘I was about to get my throat ripped out situation.’”

“What the _hell_ do you know?”

 _More about striga than you,_ he wants to argue. “Enough,” he grunts instead, “Hunting monsters is _my_ job.”

“I’ve handled _everything_ on my own,” she yells in his ear, “I can manage to kill one monster.”

“If we can just hold out--”

Yennefer struggles more, and, spitefully, Geralt considers changing his mind about letting her get eaten. There’s a contradiction there because while he’s thinking of letting her go to her demise, he’s tightening his hold. He can hear the striga recovering from the stun and tries to formulate a plan that doesn't involve them all dying. Yennefer headbutts him and gets a pile of raven hair in his mouth.

And that’s when Geralt _smells_ her--

 _Lilac and...gooseberries?_ A unique combination, never before encountered in his near century in the world. The dank air from the sewer, the rot, the striga--all the other scents are pushed from his mind, leaving room for nothing but Yennefer of Vengerberg in his arms. Shamefully, Geralt takes in a deep breath to memorize the scent. She’s infuriating, and keeps elbowing him in the stomach, but that heady scent will haunt his dreams.

If she’d stop thrashing, and if the dawn would come and the striga was a girl again, Geralt might be willing to explore what it feels like to keep her in his arms.

“You’re a _fool,”_ she spits.

“You could _help_ , and we'd be done.”

“I have my own agenda.”

They stare at one another; Yennefer breathing heavily from exertion and anger. Geralt doesn’t even want to know what awful substance he’s lying on that his hair will be _covered_ with. _If I kissed her, she’d stop talking--_

There’s no time to ponder that, though--Dandelion yells, voice echoing, “Geralt, it’s _dawn!”_

The striga is gone, replaced by the dirty, naked form of a young woman.

Dandelion, laughing, starts snapping pictures of them, still entwined on the ground.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing?” Yennefer raises a hand, probably to turn Dandelion into a frog or make his camera explode. Geralt reaches for her hand to stop her.

“You seem like kind of a bitch,” Dandelion explains, “but this is gonna make for a _great_ story.”

* * *

Five days later, Ciri slaps the newspaper down in front of Geralt when she gets home from school. He bought steak for dinner, just because he _could._

Let’s hope one of them can cook it.

“Soooo,” Ciri slides her bookbag off her shoulder, drops it onto the floor, and sits in her usual chair, “Were you gonna tell me about the striga?”

“...No.”

“Because what you did was stupid?”

Geralt huffs, “I don’t kill humans.”

“Unless they attack you?”

“Exactly.”

“More importantly. Who’s the sorceress?”” Ciri gestures to the newspaper where the photo of Yennefer and him takes up most of the top half of the page. They _do_ look like they’re a breath away from kissing, but it really wasn’t like that _at all_. 

The title reads “A Dance ‘til Dawn.” 

“No one.”

“ _Hmmm._ That doesn’t look like no one.”

“Read the damn article.” _Dandelion never spares the details._

“Yennefer of Vengerberg,” Ciri is silent for a moment, “Can I meet her?”

“Definitely not.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'd LOVE to know what everyone thought! If you want to hear me screeching about writing, you can find me on tumblr @ kurikaesu-haru.


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